


For Reasons of the Heart

by beetle



Category: Deadpool (2016), Deadpool - All Media Types, Spider-Man - All Media Types, The Amazing Spider-Man (Movies - Webb), X-Men (Comicverse), X-Men (Movieverse), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Boxing, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Domestic Violence, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, F/F, Friends to Lovers, Human Experimentation, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Kickboxing, Lovers To Enemies, M/M, MMA, Martial Arts, Mental Health Issues, Mental Instability, Mentions of past Christina | Angel Dust/Ilyana Rasputin, Mixed Martial Arts, NegaDust, Past Child Abuse, Past Rape/Non-con, Past Sexual Assault, Spideypool - Freeform, Unethical Experimentation, Unethical Medicine, muay thai
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-12-20
Updated: 2016-12-20
Packaged: 2018-09-10 15:36:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,635
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8922754
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beetle/pseuds/beetle
Summary: Christina “Angel Dust” Vetrano is a veteran Muay Thai and MMA boxer on Team Ajax, along with Wade “Deadpool” Wilson and others, which is managed by her best friend and trainer, Francis “Ajax” Freeman. Dust is good at her job, likes it, likes her teammates—even that mouthy, obnoxious asshole Wade—and likes her life. So what if she’s lonely? So what if every day has become exactly the same: wake up, workout, train, workout some more, fight matches (usually win), then go home, sleep, and do it all again the next day. So what if her best friend and personal Jesus Christ-like savior, Francis is turning into Ajax, someone she neither knows nor likes, and who has a bad habit of being an abusive shit to his boyfriend and his team?And so what if her neighbor and handy-man, the mysterious, but genial and gentlemanly Peter Nikolaievitch, has taken in a pretty, shaven-headed, darkly magnetic runaway who calls herself Negasonic Teenage Warhead, dresses like one of the goth-kids from South Park, and has eyes full of haunting secrets and haunted pain?So-the-fuck-what? Dust has matches to win and business to mind. Dealing with everyone else’s bullshit is above her pay-grade.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Pyroperception](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pyroperception/gifts), [Four_Nostril](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Four_Nostril/gifts), [badskippy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/badskippy/gifts).



> Notes/Warnings: The no powers, [Muay Thai](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Muay_Thai)/MMA AU that EVERYONE wanted. Modern setting. TRIGGERS for domestic violence/domestic sexual assault between one of the pairings . . . guess _which_ one.

 

* * *

 

“What’s got _you_ in such a rage, Stinkerbell?”

 

As Christina Vetrano entered the workout-room, Wade ignored her, continuing, instead, to rock the heavy-bag with roundhouse kick after roundhouse kick, his hands nonetheless balled into fists so tight, Christina could practically hear the red wrapping on them beginning to rip.

 

“Easy on the _te trong_ s Wilson. We’re not _made_ of heavy-bags,” she added, smirking as she put down her gym bag, crossed her arms, and leaned against the truculent, corroded radiator next to the water fountain. Today, the thing was clanking like it was on its last legs. And yet . . . still no heat was being produced. Even though Wade should’ve been running with sweat, he was barely sheened after who knows how long in the ice-cold room.

 

 _God, Francis is such a cheap little bitch these days_ , she thought, frowning as she was forced to acknowledge yet another change in her first and best friend. Leaving their old, semi-decent work-space for _this_ shit-hole was just another nail in that _old-Francis_ coffin.

 

Shaking her head, she watched Wade deliver a few more blows to the bag— _ending_ blows: quick, lethal, scalpel-sharp and lightning-fast jabs and crosses, or _mat na_ s and _mat trong_ s—before finally backing away. He was breathing hard and fast, but controlled, as he bowed shallowly to the bag and backed away before turning to face Christina, whose mouth opened slightly in dismay.

 

Taking a good, long look at Wade’s bruised, handsome face, Christina sighed and wished she could be surprised, still, at seeing him looking like he’d gone a few rounds with that other Canadian mangler, James “Wolverine” Howlett or his psychotic brother/manager/trainer/ex-MMA champion, Victor Creed. But the fact was, even when he was between matches, Wade was always bruised about the face and arms, back and sides. He was always walking with a limp that had nothing to do with the matches he nine-times-out-of-ten won.

 

 _Francis is worse than a cheap little bitch, Chrissy_ , a quiet voice in her heart whispered. _He’s a full-on_ asshole _. He never_ used _to be like this. Never. It’s like he’s someone else, now—someone we don’t know or like. Someone that no one with any sense of self-esteem, self-respect, or self-preservation would hitch their wagon to._

 

Frowning at Wade’s stony, angular face, but meeting his shining, vulnerable, storm-grey eyes, Christina sighed again and silently agreed. But, still. . . .

 

 _So, people change, sometimes. Not always for the better. Though, admittedly, if_ I _was in Francis’ shoes and sleeping with Wilson, I’d probably have to fight not to pop him one, too, on occasion._

 

 _Perhaps, but you’d_ win _that fight. You wouldn’t give in and stoop to hitting someone who’s so in love with you that they’d_ let _you put your hands on them like that,_ the voice replied. It sounded, as it always had, like Christina’s father, Don. He’d always been a man with even more heart-sense than common-sense, though he’d had plenty of the latter, too. Not so for Christina’s _mother_ , Betsy. She’d always been emotionally clingy and frightened of being alone. So it’d been no surprise, ten months after Don’s death, that Betsy Vetrano had gotten remarried to the first guy to be even a _little_ nice to her, never minding that just because someone was _nice_ didn’t mean that they were _good_.

 

(And Nathaniel Essex Pearson had been many things . . . but none of them were _nice or good_.)

 

More apropos wisdom from Don Vetrano. Never _more_ apropos than over the past two years, seeing the way Wade had been used like a sparring dummy for practically two-thirds of his relationship with Francis.

 

She was _used_ to the way Francis treated Wade, by now. Treated _any_ of his . . . lovers. Treated any of his _team_ . . . even, sometimes, Christina. Though, of all of them, he treated _Wade_ the worst for the least reason—and Wade, for some reason Betsy Vetrano-Pearson could’ve probably explained, had Christina been in contact with her, took it patiently . . . even meekly—and so pointedly, it was as if he had a _vendetta_ against his lover. Because, sure, the guy could talk the ears off a field of corn, most of it amusing, obnoxious, self-referential, pop-culture bullshit that Francis could and habitually _did_ ignore (though, on a few notable occasions, in which Christina’d had to step between them and on one memorable afternoon, take Wade to the emergency room) but that was no excuse to tenderize him like a side of beef.

 

Of late, Francis certainly seemed to be more penalizing than forgiving of Wade’s motor-mouth and lack of brain-mouth filter.

 

And Wade _did_ know how to push Francis’s buttons . . . _each and every one_. But that was hardly an excuse for the things Christina had surmised . . . and the things she’d seen with her own eyes . . . was it? No, _not_ an excuse for Francis once more beating the shit out of his ridiculously talented and dangerous—his fists were registered weapons, just like James Howlett’s, Victor Creed’s, and Steve “Captain” Rogers’s—but surprisingly eager-to-please lover.

 

Looking into Wade’s hurt and unguarded eyes, still shining with unshed tears, Christina sighed.

 

“I’m sorry, Wade.”

 

“Sorry for what, Dust? That I . . . walked into a door? _Again_? Five or six times? A door named _Francis_?” Snorting, Wade began to pace, and armed a little sweat carefully off his bruised face. Said face sported a raccoon mask, split lip, and purpling, swollen left cheek. “Not like it’s _your_ fault I can’t keep my fucking mouth shut, eh?”

 

“No, your _mouth_ is _your fault_. But those bruises . . . those aren’t _remotely_ your fault, Wilson.” Christina approached Wade slowly as he paced a few steps to the right, then back to the left, then stood still for all of three seconds before repeating the pattern like a caged tiger. When she’d crossed the workout-room to stand in front of him—at six-foot-two and one-half, he was a good six inches taller than Christina and four inches taller than Francis, who was built compact and low-to-the-ground, like many successful fighters. Wade’s height was, in the ring, a disadvantage, except for the ridiculous-reach of his long, strong limbs.

 

Christina put out a hand to clasp Wade’s shoulder, but he danced back out of her reach instinctively, shaking his head in a distracted way, not meeting her eyes. She could only think back to that night, seven months ago, when she’d had to all but drag Wade out of his and Francis’s loft and down to a cab-stand. He wouldn’t let her call an ambulance despite the blood, and the extent and nature of his injuries. Maybe _because_ of them. That night had been the first that Wade had ever darted away from hers or anyone’s touch, that she knew of.

 

But it wasn’t the last. In fact, it had _increased_ since that day almost exponentially. He especially flinched when random people touched him in any way that wasn’t violent or during a match. The only person he let touch him anymore was Francis, to whom Wade had a weird way of clinging, despite everything.

 

“Why do you let him _do_ this to you, Wilson?” Christina asked suddenly, without having meant to. Wade’s slate-y eyes widened for a few moments, then shuttered over that vulnerability. He smirked, self-mocking and rueful.

 

“Hey, if it’s a toss-up between _‘Jax_ kickin’ my ass and my _last_ asshole boyfriend . . . at least ‘Jax knows when to stop.”

 

“ _Does_ he?”

 

Wade flushed and looked away from Christina, probably thinking about that night, too. The embarrassing trip to the E.R. The wait in the emergency room. Explaining his injuries to the doctor (the “walked into a door” bullshit Wade jokingly claimed didn’t go over, so it’d eventually been a hesitant telling of the truth, after that), Then getting treated for those injuries, including stitches, sutures, splints for three fingers, a sling for his arm, and . . . other treatment that Christina could guess at but Wade had refused to talk about.

 

“Mostly, yeah. More than _Nate_ did, anyhow.” Wade’s voice was soft and low and miserable. Pathetic, compared to his usual braggadocio. “And ‘Jax does it without all the moralizing and daddy-ing.”

 

Sighing again, Christina shook her head and turned away. Went back to her gym-bag, near the sputtering, clanking radiator. She shrugged off her jacket and Underarmour—proud sponsors of Team Ajax for the past three years—hoodie, her similarly branded t-shirt and sweats, and shoved the whole kit and kaboodle into the bag. Then she took out her roll of black hand-wrap and held it up so Wade could see it. “So. Since you seem to be in fighting trim despite disagreements with a door . . . wanna spar with me?” Glancing over her shoulder at a once-more-vulnerable-looking Wade, Christina quirked one of her rare, small smiles. “We both have upcoming matches we need to prepare for.”

 

Wade served her a smile right back, crooked and genuine. Charming and sweet, despite the split lip.

 

“Yeah,” he said, flushing and stretching. “Get wrapped up and afterwards, loser buys me a bottled water and a _Power Bar_.”

 

Christina rolled her eyes. “Ugh. How you can eat that shit is beyond me.”

 

“Angel, sweetheart, I’ve eaten moose-lips in a red wine-sauce at one of the finer bistros in Regina. Frankly, _Power Bars_ are pretty much chewy candy to me. Quick energy and nothing more.” Wade snorted again and Christina made a face.

 

“Times like this, I’m glad to be an American.”

 

Chuckling, Wade strolled over to the ring and sat on the edge, watching her change without the slightest self-consciousness. And, after four years of fighting together and sharing changing areas, Christina wasn’t self-conscious either. Even if Wilson _had_ been interested in her—and though he claimed to be pansexual, Christina’d only seen him chase after men, before he and Francis got together two years ago—she had nothing he hadn’t seen before. And _hers_ was, undoubtedly, in _much_ better shape.

 

“Hey, speaking of non-Americans . . . how’s that cute, Russian, fix-it guy who lives in your building? Uh . . . I wanna say _Fyodor_. . . ?”

 

“It’s _Piotr_ , or _Peter_. And he’s the Super. A really _good_ one, too. And he’s doing fine, last I checked. Why?”

 

Wade shrugged and swung his muscular legs. He was coiled, but lean, like a runner or swimmer: all long, striking definition and fluid rippling of toned, but not freakish muscles. “Eh. My buddy Weasel’s been in kind of a dating-slump, lately. I’ve been kinda brainstorming who I could set him up on a . . . I dunno . . . a training-date with. The Russian Delight popped into my head just now.”

 

Grabbing her hand-wrap and stalking to the ring to sit next to Wade, Christina began taping up her square, callused hands with speedy efficiency. “Your friend’s name is _Weasel_?” At Wade’s nod, Christina huffed. “I think I may’ve nailed his dating troubles in one word.”

 

“Well, his _real_ name’s Jack. Jack Hammer.” At Christina’s lifted brows, Wade snickered. “For realsies, Dusty. Jack Malachi Hammer. But he’s a Teddy bear. He’s in grad school for engineering and tends bar on the side. Tall, kinda pudgy, but wears it very well. Blond hair, hazel eyes, great smile. Funny as shit _and_ the smartest guy I know.”

 

“If he’s so awesome, what’re you doing with _my_ douchebag bestie?”

 

“Sweetheart, Weas’s a bottom. And a fairly shameless and submissive one, too. Just like yours, truly.”

 

“Meaning?”

 

“Meaning, that Weas takes cock however he can get it and like a pro.” Wade’s brows did some upward drifting of their own. “Babycakes, _this_ MMA fighter may be a bad ass in the ring, but in the bedroom, he _takes_ it up the ass. And say what you will about Francis . . . the dick is _so_ good with my baby. _Thank_ ya, Jesus.” He shivered, raised his hands in a silent _Hallelujah_ , and sighed a bit dreamily. Christina made another face and Wade laughed. “Anyway, Weas and I have the same taste in guys. And that taste is _not each other_. But that cute colossus of a Ruskie’s _totally_ up Weas’s alley. Or _could be_.”

 

Ignoring the single entendre and Wade’s prolonged eyebrow-wiggle, Christina huffed again. “Men make sex so _complicated_. Especially the gay ones,” Christina noted. Wade shrugged yet again.

 

“I think you have it twisted, babe. It’s _women_ that complicate sex. And I don’t mean with _feelings_ , I mean with all the other manipulative, annoying, petty shit that comes with feelings. My ex-soulsucker, Carmelita, could attest to that.”

 

Christina shook her head in adamant denial. “Not all women are like your ex, Wilson. My Ilyana—” she fell silent suddenly, as she realized she’d not only said Ilyana’s name _aloud_ for the first time in nearly three years, but she’d started to _talk_ about Piotr’s sister to someone that _wasn’t_ Piotr. Or even his dick-tip brother, Mikhail.

 

“Who’s Ilyana?” Wade asked quietly, biting his split lip gingerly and leaning into Christina as if to give support. A rare gesture, and one that didn’t go unnoticed or unappreciated. Christina leaned back.

 

“She’s, uh . . . Ilyana Nikolaievitch . . . Piotr’s little sister.”

 

Wade blinked and began to grin. “Fine-and-Cyrillic has a _sister_? _Wow_. Is she tall and strong-like-bull, too? Has she yet caught Moose and Squir-rel?”

 

“She’s dead,” Christina said flatly, only for Wade’s grey eyes to turn shocked, then sad, then soft.

 

“Jesus, babe . . . I’m so sorry for your loss, Angel.”

 

“Eh.” Christina flexed her now wrapped-up fists. The black of the wrap was the color of a silent void. She tossed the rest of the nearly-finished roll at her gym-bag. “I wasn’t family. Piotr and Mikhail were the ones who _lost_ someone. I was just a . . . a hanger-on. But Ilyana _was_ the light of our—of _their_ lives. Their ray of sunshine.”

 

Wade’s gaze was so intent and intense, Christina could feel it even though she was staring at her hands.

 

“Were you in love with her?” he asked. Christina almost didn’t answer. Then she thought: _What does it matter?_

 

“Yeah. Pretty much everyone was. Even Francis’s gay-ass heart—black as coal and cold as a brick—had a soft-spot for Ana. She was . . . special.” Smiling a little at her hands, Christina made loose fists that slowly tightened of their own accord. “Beautiful and sweet . . . and such an _imp_. You two woulda got along like a house on fire.”

 

Wade chuckled. “I wish I coulda met her. She sounds pretty awesome.”

 

“She was. She was.”

 

“Was she . . . did she love you back?” Wade asked tentatively, and Christina . . . bounced up. By the time she gained her feet, she was _Angel Dust_ , emotionless and on-alert, and climbing into the ring.

 

“Dunno. Doesn’t matter. Dead’s dead.” With a jerky shrug, Dust danced back from Wade, who entered the ring slowly, hitching up his hot-pink, _Hello Kitty_ shorts then scratching his bare chest briefly. Dust, in her spandex shorts and Underarmour sports bra, with her hair pulled back in a tucked-under French braid—done by none other than Piotr Nicholaievitch . . . handy-man, indeed—smirked her most enigmatic smirk and waved Wade forward. “We gonna spar, little Princess, or just keep trading tales of loves lost and dick gotten?”

 

Wade burst out laughing without taking his eyes off her, then cleared his throat. With a reverence completely free of their usual sarcasm, sardonicism, or irony, both combatants began their counter-clockwise travel around the ring, bowing their heads and saying a brief prayer at each corner. This was in deference to their ancestors and teachers, and respect and thanks to Lord Buddha.

 

(For Christina, skeptic and doubter of anything she couldn’t observe with her senses, it was more mindfulness ritual, than prayer, but Wade, she knew, was pretty into _Thien_ Buddhism.)

 

When the prayer-ritual, the _ram muay_ , was completed, the combatants bowed to each other once again, without taking their eyes off the other.

 

Then the sparring match was engaged.

 

TBC

**Author's Note:**

> How's it workin' for ya?
> 
> [Follow me on Tumblr](https://beetle-ships-it-all.tumblr.com/)!


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